Guidance
by bulbus
Summary: A brief look at some of the people who shape Clark for his role in the future. Epilogue is up, it's over.
1. The Guardian

Guidance: A Smallville Fanfiction By Peter Amico (Disclaimer: I don't own one bit of the rights to Superman or Smallville or any of the other character pertained herein. If you've got an issue with any of them, take it up with DC or Warner Bros.)  
  
Author's Note: This is sorta a different type of fanfic than anything out there. There aren't any pairings, no drama, no action (well maybe a little), just dialogue. I wanted to do a small little fic that examined some of the guiding forces that would shape Clark into who he eventually becomes; to take a look at his reaction to the philosophies out there as he begins to shape his own. I hope you enjoy  
  
Part I: Guardian  
  
Part I Note: The Guardian is the former vigilante of Metropolis. He was around before Superman got there, but he didn't have any powers, just a shield, sorta a toned down version of Captain America.  
  
"Remind me why we're doing this again?" Pete asked Chloe as he stood there carrying a stack of metal chairs. He grunted and shifted them around in his hands.  
  
"Because it's a great way to earn extra credit and you owed me a favor," she laughed, waving a clipboard at him. "Besides, stacking chairs is good for you. Helps you stay in shape for football."  
  
"I am in shape," he protested angrily. The chairs started to slip out of his hands and he had to quickly set them down so they didn't fall all over the cafeteria.  
  
"What kind of shape is the question," she commented.  
  
"Come on," Clark said behind them, "aren't you even a little psyched about this? Having Jim Harper come to our school to speak, the guy's a celebrity."  
  
"The guy's a nutcase," Pete laughed. "He ran around in tights and carried a shield, need I say more?"  
  
"Uh, Excuse me," Clark said. "He was a legend in Metropolis; the Guardian! The GUARDIAN! Do you know how many criminals he's credited with arresting? How many times he saved the city?"  
  
Pete smiled and looked at Clark frankly. "Tights, Clark. T-I-G-H-T-S."  
  
"You're impossible," he fumed. Chloe laughed at both of them.  
  
"I didn't know you were a Guardian fan, Clark," she said.  
  
"Are you kidding?" Pete remarked. "He had the action figure and everything. Even this little motorcycle for him to ride around in."  
  
"Until you broke it," Clark snapped. "I'm still mad at you for that."  
  
"That was like the third grade."  
  
"Boy's and their toys," Chloe sighed. "So, I guess you have all his books too, huh?"  
  
"Practically," he admitted. "I've got his memoirs and then the Life Picture History of his Guardian Appearances. I'm missing the last part of his Guardian Case files though."  
  
"Now we know what to get you for your birthday," Pete said, picking up the chairs again. "How many more of these chairs do we have to put out, anyways?"  
  
"Until you can fit the entire class in here," Chloe said. "Keep working, I'm counting only thirty so far and so that means you've only got about two hundred to go."  
  
"And what about you?" Clark asked, carrying another stack of chairs over. "If you're in charge of this why don't I see you helping?"  
  
"I am helping," she replied, waving her clipboard. "I've got important supervisor-type duties to take care of. Yep, I'm much, much too busy to help lug around chairs."  
  
Clark and Pete looked at each other for a moment and then both of them put their chairs down. "Hey, no breaks," Chloe said, as they started towards her. "Wait, what are you doing?"  
  
"I've got her," Pete said, picking her up and slinging her over his shoulder. "Get the clipboard."  
  
"No!" Chloe said, shrieking with laughter as she held the clipboard out. "Put me down you big lummox!" Clark, laughing as well, darted around Pete trying to snatch the clipboard out of her hands as she swung it around. Even though he was supposed to be helping him, Pete started to turn around in circles making Clark follow around him.  
  
"Getting dizzy!" Chloe shouted. Suddenly Clark dashed forwards and pulled the clipboard away.  
  
"Got it!" he yelled and Pete turned around so he could see.  
  
"Blank?" he asked  
  
"Yep." Clark held it up for him. The papers clipped to it were absolutely bare. Chloe grimaced and sighed.  
  
"Supervisor-type duties huh?" Pete asked over his shoulder.  
  
"I guess I could give you guys a hand on chair duty," she remarked, shrugging absently.  
  
He stood at the podium on stage, staring out over the crowd of students. "Good afternoon, Ladies and Gentlemen. Some of you might recognize me, but for those of you who don't, my name is Jim Harper, formerly of the Metropolis Police Department, 5th Precinct. What some people seem to find more important though was the name I used to call myself after I got off my day-job; the Guardian." Jim Harper, even though he had to be pushing sixty, was still an intimidating figure. Dressed in a casual blue suit, he carried with him an air of instant authority. He was tall, well over six feet, with a kind of solid, intimidating figure that radiated strength. He had a kind and open face though, the sort that automatically inspired trust. Clark had seen his picture before of course, but meeting him in person now, he was surprised with how warm the man could be.  
  
I bet we'd be great friends; he thought briefly and then dismissed the idea wryly. The chances of that ever happening were just to this side of slim to none.  
  
As he gripped the podium though, Clark noticed something about him that sent a slight chill through him. Harper had large, red looking knuckles, almost twice normal size. They looked like they'd been cracked and bruised countless times, which was probably true, he realized. His hands were also swollen and meaty looking. It wasn't very difficult to imagine him crushing a brick in those hands. Or something else.  
  
Pete leaned over next to Clark and whispered, "At least he's wearing a suit. If he'd come out in the blue and gold tights, I don't know if I could have kept quiet." Clark frowned at him, but Pete just smiled back. One of the teacher's shhh-ed loudly at them and they both sat back, quiet. The entire sophomore class was crammed inside the auditorium to listen to Harper.  
  
"Now I've been up and down the state talking to a bunch of student's this past year," he said, "which gave me a lot of time to discover something: I can't write speeches. Not for the life of me. So what I like to do is open up the floor right away for a bit of question and answer. You ask, I answer, that's the deal here. Anything you want, I'm fairly open."  
  
Harper looked out over the audience, waiting for some hands. There were no immediate takers. The silence ticked on a few uncomfortable moments as the student's looked around at each other. Finally, more to keep the mood going than out of curiosity, a teacher in the back raised her hand.  
  
"Yes?" Harper said, smiling at her.  
  
"I was just wondering why you got started as the Guardian? What motivated you?" Harper frowned and then a wry smile broke out over his face.  
  
"I guess it was a lot of things, first among them probably the thrill of it," he laughed. "You might find that hard to understand, but bear with me. You see, the first time I put on the costume, there wasn't much of a costume, just a shield and helmet that I'd scrounged out of an old costume shop. I did it really to protect myself. You probably know the story; I was a rookie police office, wet behind the ears and too gung ho for my own good. I tried to bring in a gang of thugs by myself and they got the jump on me. Kicked the living hell out of me and stole my gun. For a rookie, for any cop, that's inexcusable. Rather than call for back up, I wanted to bring them in myself." He shook his head again, laughing softly. "Like I said, I didn't have much sense."  
  
"I stumbled across the costume shop as I was trailing them, and saw the helmet and shield in the window. Without my gun, I thought a little added protection would've been a smart move. That was all I was thinking really, no grander motive than saving my own hide."  
  
"Well," he said, looking up briefly, "to make a long story short, I found the thugs and managed to take them into custody without too much difficulty. I was surprised, I remember, with how right it seemed fighting with the shield. I always find that funny, thinking back over it. How right it seemed," he murmured. He was silent for a moment and then shrugged.  
  
"Here's a fun little fact for you," he smiled, looking over them again. "If it hadn't been pride, there might never have been a Guardian. I left them tied up in an alley and called the police in anomalously from a pay phone. There was no way I was going to bring them in myself, because then I'd have to reveal the whole story about losing my gun and trying to tackle them single handedly. I'd been a lucky fool, and even I knew it by then."  
  
"But pride's a funny thing. The gang wasn't willing to admit that they'd been beaten up by one guy, so they laid it on a little thick. Oh the stories they told," he laughed.  
  
"One said I had been ten feet tall and shot fire at them. Another swore there'd been five of me, all dressed the same way. It seems they never recognized me in the mask, and even if any of them had, they weren't going to let it slip that one lone cop got the better of them. So my secret was safe and all the city could talk about was its new guardian angel."  
  
One of the student's hands shot up and Harper nodded at him. "What was it like to read about yourself like that in the paper?" he asked quickly. Harper smiled and laughed loudly.  
  
"Oh, pretty good, actually. I got a thrill every time I heard someone talk about "the Guardian" as the name was shortened. It was a kick, I won't lie, but I thought that people would lose interest after a while. I didn't have intention of going out again, so I thought things would go back to normal. But people kept talking about it, trading theories and rumors. There were even a few more Guardian sightings, of which I had nothing to do with, I'll add. After a while, even I got the bug, and I started planning out things. Improvements to the costume, learning new fighting style's, training myself, it was a busy few months. All told, I think there it was six months after I'd stumbled into that costume shop that I had my first, official Guardian adventure."  
  
A few more hands shot up, none the least of all Pete's. Clark stared at him as he stood up, waving. Harper nodded towards him and Pete smiled. "I was just wondering," he asked slowly, "why the tights? I mean, why wear the helmet and the blue and gold outfit? Didn't that kind of strike you as strange?" There were a few chuckles from the audience as Clark buried his head in his hands, mortified. Harper though, seemed to take the question in stride.  
  
"There's always someone who asks that question," he laughed. "Well, it's a legitimate concern and something I've asked myself at a few times. I'd like to assure you right off that bat that I didn't have any "obscure psychological motives" for wearing tights. They're not even tights really, the original costume had a bullet proof vest and the leggings were sewn with strips of iron mesh. Later on, I upgraded it to Kevlar, and of course, the shield and helmet have always been incredibly durable. Aside from my fists, I had no other weapons and no special abilities, so I needed all the protection I could get. So I could say that it just the best way to protect as much of my body as possible while enabling me to move and fight, but that wouldn't be completely correct. No, there's a lot more to it than that."  
  
"How many of you love Halloween?" he suddenly asked. There was a moment of silence and then a general murmur of agreement. "Do you enjoy putting on costumes and going out to the parties and the like? Of course, most people do. But why do we enjoy it; that's a difficult question. Part of it might be because when you're putting on the costume, you're not yourself anymore, you're someone else."  
  
"Have you ever dreamed of being someone else?" he asked rhetorically. "Of escaping your lives and leaving all your problems behind? That's the sort of logic that drives people to put on costumes. They want to be someone else, someone better, stronger. They want to leave all the baggage of their other life behind for a little while. Does that answer your question?" he asked Pete.  
  
"Yeah," he said slowly, no longer laughing. "One thing though," he added, looking a little confused, "isn't that a little schizophrenic? You know, like multiple personalities or something?"  
  
Harper burst out laughing, slapping the podium fiercely. Pete swallowed and look around nervously as some other student's started to chuckle as well. "Young man," Harper said when he had regained control, "you're the first student, I think, to ever call me crazy."  
  
"I.I didn't mean,"  
  
"No, no," he waved Pete quiet, "I don't mind. I respect it actually. You've got a keen mind and you just don't blindly accept what people tell you, that's a rare thing. As to your question, yes, it is very much like what a schizophrenic person might do, or someone with multiple personalities. That's what drives most people like that, their lives get too painful, and so they try and find a way out. As for myself and other's like me, well." He paused and frowned, rubbing his chin.  
  
"Well. I've seen a lot of things in my life. Some beautiful, some too horrible for words. Some things that I could put away and forget about, and some that still send me screaming awake at nights." He paused and looked down at the podium briefly, shaking his head. "A very wise man once said," he stated, still looking down, "that it's our madness that sometimes keeps us sane." He nodded and looked up, smiling softly at them. "Sorry about that. Next question."  
  
Clark raised his hand, not even conscious of it. Harper seemed to look straight at him, and for a moment, it seemed that something sparked between the two of them.  
  
"Yes?" he asked.  
  
"Why did you stop being the Guardian?" Clark asked. He hadn't even thought of a question, it had just popped into his head from somewhere.  
  
Harper stared at him oddly for a long while, not saying anything. Then he cleared his throat loudly, but didn't say anything. One of the teachers stood up hurriedly, smiling anxiously at him.  
  
"I'm sorry about that, Mr. Harper. You don't have to answer that it you don't-"  
  
"No, it's alright," he said, not taking his eyes off Clark. "I was just a little surprised. I think I've wanted somebody to ask me that question for a long time, but I never expected to hear it today." He took his eyes off Clark and looked out over all the students.  
  
"A lot of people have assumed that I stopped being the Guardian just because I got old. Foolishness," he laughed. "I may be slower but I'm stronger and more full of tricks than I've ever been. No, I didn't stop because my hair turned gray, I stopped because the times were changing, and I was being left behind." He glanced back at Clark and then out over the students again.  
  
"Pay attention to this word, children: metahuman. Metahuman. In laymen's terms, it means a person with powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men. When I started as the Guardian there were other's like me out there, hero and villain. Most of us had no special powers; oh there were a few odd cases here and there, but not very many. But as time passed, I saw more and more of those special people begin to spring up. Some were born that way, some get their powers through accidents, it doesn't really matter how but that they exist."  
  
"At first no one noticed, but then as more and more of them started to show up, it became increasingly obvious to the rest of us what was happening. We were being replaced. I mean, when someone can punch through a steel door or shoot energy beams out his hands, what use is there for an old guy with a shield?" he laughed without a trace of bitterness. "Yes, we were being replaced. Some of us took it the wrong way and got bitter and paranoid. They thought that these super-humans were not just going to displace us heroes, but the entire human race. I don't believe that for a second, never did."  
  
"There are more and more people with these abilities surfacing every day," he told them. "I don't fear them though, because no matter what they can do or become, they remain human inside. We share the same hopes and fears, the same heartaches and joys. Some of them might be driven to become villains, to use their powers selfishly. But can we say any differently about some 'normal' people. We've always had our villains, and there have always been people willing to stand up and fight them."  
  
He looked at Clark for a moment. "There always have been and there always will be." 


	2. Bruce

Part II: Bruce  
  
(If you want to know what Bruce Wayne is doing in Smallville, check out a previous fic of mine, Night and Day. It's long, but worth the read)  
  
"Get me down from here, you nutcase," the young man shrieked as he kicked helplessly in the wind. He was hanging upside down from a rope line tied to one of his ankles. Below him, there was nothing but three stories of empty air right down to the pavement. "God, please, just let me down," he pleaded.  
  
"Whatever you say," a steely voice chuckled. The line went slack and the young man started to plummet downward. His shriek carried up into the night and then was cut off as the line went taunt again. He started to blubber as he hung there, swinging about in the wind. "Ready to talk yet?" that voice asked lightly. The young man burbled nonsense, nodding furiously.  
  
"Good, I was-" the voice started and then stopped suddenly. "Hmph. Wait just a minute." The line shook for a moment and then jerked upwards. He shrieked once, quickly, thinking he was going to fall again. Instead, he was slowly pulled upwards back to the rooftop. When he was near the top, a pair of black gloved hands grabbed him and lifted him upwards.  
  
"Please, please, I'll tell you anything, I mean it, I will!" he started to babble.  
  
"I know that, you've been making a lot of noise for a while now." He couldn't make out the other man's face at all in the darkness, not that he wanted to. He'd been grilled by police before and hadn't batted an eye. He'd stared down the barrels of a few guns in his life and hadn't begged for anything. He'd thought that he'd always be as cool under fire. All those illusions had come to an end about an hour ago, when a pair steel- trap hands had grabbed him from the mouth of an alley and had dragged him into the darkness."  
  
"What are you going to do to me?" he asked fearfully.  
  
There was a dark chuckle out of the blackness. "I'm going to listen to you, in a while. But I'm busy now, so I'm going to let you think about what to tell me." There was a ripping sound and then a patch of thick tape was slapped across his mouth. "Think hard." Then those hands let go of him and he plummeted ten feet down to hang in midair.  
  
Clark watched it all from the side of the rooftop. He could hear the man's muffled screams even from here and he frowned, a little disturbed. He's seen Bruce in action before, but he was still startled by the extent to which he was willing to go to get what he wanted.  
  
"I'm busy. What do you want?" Bruce asked him brusquely, not even bothering to turn around.  
  
"Just to talk, I suppose," Clark shrugged. "I haven't seen you around for a while, so I guess I was wondering what you were up to." Bruce grunted, still looking over the ledge. "Is all that really necessary?" he asked quietly.  
  
"Yes, as a matter of fact, it is," Bruce said, turning to him. He was as tall as Clark, but a little broader and well built. Dressed entirely in black, he seemed almost another piece of the shadows as he stood there.  
  
"What happens if you make a mistake?" Clark asked him. "Or the rope breaks? What then?" Bruce stared at him oddly for a moment until Clark snorted, looking upwards and shaking his head. "Of course, silly me. You don't make mistakes do you?"  
  
"I can't afford them," he shrugged and looked over the side briefly. His mouth twitched into a brief grin and he looked back.  
  
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Clark demanded.  
  
"Do you know what he did?" Bruce asked him quietly, ignoring the question. Clark grunted irritably and shook his head. "My little piñata down there used to run with a gang called the Sharks, based out of Metropolis. Twelve days ago, a police officer was murdered on their turf. Kinda funny wouldn't you say, a cop gets shot in Metropolis and suddenly we've got Sharks popping up in Smallville? Sounds like somebody's running, wouldn't you agree?"  
  
"Maybe," Clark said. "Could you have gotten him to admit that without scaring him half to death?"  
  
"Of course," he shrugged, looking over the ledge.  
  
"Then why do it?"  
  
"Because this way he'll remember and he'll stay scared." He stared down at the swinging figure, his face impassive.  
  
"Fear's a strong tool, Clark," he said slowly. "As old as love and just as powerful. People obey it, give in to it. It's amazing too, no matter how strong or smart we think we are, we all fear what lies in the shadows. Just out of sight, waiting for us. That sort of black suspense that surrounds you at night when you're all alone," he murmured to himself.  
  
"Now you're sounding like a old horror movie," Clark smiled.  
  
"Why not, they got it right," he argued. "Hitchcock, Carpenter, they understood that it was fear that gripped people, not shock. They used suspense, let you wonder what was going to happen, rather than throw a lot of gore and blood at you. Flashing a knife in someone's face is startling, but not knowing if the knife's really there, now that's frightening."  
  
"Okay. Didn't figure you for the horror fan." Clark laughed a little wryly and said, "But then I guess it makes sense. If you were going to like movies, I wouldn't figure you for the romantic comedy types." Bruce smiled at him and Clark stopped laughing. He had that effect on people sometimes.  
  
"Just giving you an example," he shrugged. He knelt down and nodded over the ledge. "Look at him. He's terrified right now, even though I wouldn't let him fall, no matter what I tell him. And you know what, it hardly matters. No matter what I do to him, it couldn't possibly compare with what he's feeling right now. The raw terror of not knowing, of waiting." He smiled that chilly half-smile of his. "Like I said, the old movies got it right."  
  
"I still don't think you need to do this. Isn't it a bit much? I mean, stopping crime is one thing, but do you really need to have him fear you?"  
  
"Simple, if he stays scared, he'll stay clean." Bruce looked at him frankly. "We can never prevent every crime, Clark. It's just not possible. You can't be everywhere at once, no one's that fast. The most we can ever hope for is to contain the damage. But if we can get them to fear us, to think twice before acting, then that's a step in the right direction."  
  
"To what; ruling with an iron fist? Do you really want everyone afraid of you just because it may make some people think twice?"  
  
"If necessary."  
  
"What about people who are innocent? You want them afraid of you too." Bruce didn't answer. "Bruce, that's." he hesitated to say it, but couldn't think of a different word, "kind of. crazy."  
  
He laughed mirthlessly, glancing at Clark. "Yeah, I guess it is. But it'll work though. If they fear you, they'll listen and they'll know," he told him seriously. "They'll know. So," he said, smiling again, "if the solution is an insane one, are you being sane to choose it, or insane not to?"  
  
"I don't want people to fear me," Clark stated firmly. Bruce just looked at him and smiled. Then he turned back and crouched down on the ledge.  
  
"Do me a favor," he laughed. "When I let him go, follow him. If he doesn't do exactly what I tell you, I'll apologize."  
  
"To him or me?"  
  
"Either, it hardly matters."  
  
"That would be something. I'd don't think I've ever seen you do that before. Are you sure you know how?"  
  
"Funny," he said dryly. "When I let him go, he's going to run straight to the police. He'll tell them everything, about the murder, about anything he's ever done or heard about. He'll spill every dirty secret he's got without a moment's hesitation."  
  
"And you know this because?"  
  
Bruce laughed again. "I've watched it before."  
  
"And enjoyed it, I bet," Clark remarked.  
  
Bruce looked at him irritably. "Do you know what I hate about you, Clark?" he asked testily. "You're so goddamn arrogant." Clark could only stare at him.  
  
"I'm what."  
  
"Arrogant," he snapped. "Not in the usual way, it's just implied in your character. I've seen you in action, I've watched you fight, or what you call fighting. You're absolutely convinced that there's no one out there that could hurt you. You take chances, leave yourself open. For a while I thought it was just because you were an amateur, but now I'm not so sure."  
  
"Do you really want to throw the word arrogance around with me, Bruce?" Clark asked him coldly. "Hmm? Not when every other word you say is meant in some way to patronize me. Do you know how sick I am of hearing you put me down?"  
  
"Fine then," Bruce told him. "Hit me."  
  
"What?" Clark stopped dead.  
  
"Hit me," Bruce said, waiting. He stood there patiently with his arms at his side.  
  
He's goading me, Clark thought suddenly as he blood started to boil. "Fine then," he said suddenly and swung at Bruce. Without even seeming to move, suddenly Bruce's hands were up and wrapped around Clark's arm, carrying his fist away from his chest. Clark glared at him sullenly. "Well?" he asked.  
  
"Case in point, Clark," Bruce snapped at him. "You could lift with a car with each hand. I shouldn't be able to stop you if were really going to hit me. Do you see what I mean?"  
  
"Well what do you expect me to do?" Clark asked him. "Punch through your chest? I'm a lot stronger than you-"  
  
"-and I can't risk hurting me," Bruce finished for him. "I know, I've heard the speech. Here's another one that one of my teachers gave me: 'There's always someone stronger.' You keep fighting with kid gloves on, and sooner or later, you're going to run into someone who's just as strong as you, or stronger. And if you don't take it seriously, you're going to wind up dead. Now, I don't expect you to go around crippling people in fights, but a little bruising might not hurt them."  
  
"Speaking of crippling people, how many people have you put in the hospital this week?" Clark asked him acidly.  
  
"Two; Smallville's not a very big town." Neither one said anything for a long while. The only sound was the muffled shouts from below them.  
  
"Well, I'm going to get on with this," Bruce shrugged. He started to haul up the line slowly, grunting as he pulled upwards. Clark didn't make any move to help him and Bruce didn't ask for any. "You're going to follow him, right?" he asked.  
  
Clark nodded. He owed him that much anyways. "How do you know he won't run as soon as you turn him loose?"  
  
Bruce smiled at him and held out his open hand. "Five words, that all. Five words." He bent down and lifted him partially over the ledge, so that his waist was bent backwards over the brick side. The man's head hung over the edge, his eyes wild and teary. Unconcerned, Bruce unwrapped some of the strands of rope around the man's ankle, spooling out more of the line. Then he looked up at him and smiled. He bent down until the man's head was inches from his own.  
  
"I'll be watching you," he said in that steely voice. Then he lifted the man up and dropped him over the side. Clark started from where he'd been standing as the coiled rope vanished over the side. Bruce stood there watching impassively as the line played out. Then man fell silently, his screams still muffled by the tape. When he was ten feet from the ground, the rope went taunt again and he jerked to a stop. Clark watched as he swung wildly on the line and then he looked at Bruce questionably.  
  
"That was four words," he pointed out.  
  
"No," he remarked, "it was five. "I'll be watching you," he said counting them out on his hand. "Five."  
  
"'I'll' doesn't count for two," Clark said.  
  
"Sure it does. I'll: I will. Two words."  
  
"I think it's more like one and a half maybe, or just one. I don't think two."  
  
"What are you-," Bruce started, and then shook his head angrily. "No, we are not having this conversation," he stated. Clark chuckled and after a moment, Bruce smiled as well.  
  
Still smiling, he bent down and swiftly cut the rope with a knife from his belt. They could hear a dull thud from far below as the man hit the pavement. Expertly pulling the rope back up and winding it around his arm, Bruce glanced at him.  
  
"You'd better get going," he said softly. "He'll want to get away quick."  
  
Clark nodded and started back to the ladder on the other side of the roof. "I'll see ya," he said over his shoulder. Bruce nodded at him and looked back over the ledge. Beneath him, the darkened shapes of the buildings spread out in all directions. He stared out into the night and then shivered as the cold air touched him briefly.  
  
"See ya, Clark," he called out softly, still looking out over the town. 


	3. Lex

Part III: Lex  
  
The Talon was bustling as usual. The couches were filled with people sipping coffee and chatting amiably while a light radio station played over the speakers. In the corner there was a TV tuned to a football game: the Metropolis Sharks versus the Gotham Knights. Clark glanced around the room, it was full all right, he though, but there was no Lana in sight. Disappointed, he checked the room one more time and spotted a familiar face sitting in at one of the back tables. Making his way through the crowds, he sat down opposite him.  
  
"Lex," Clark smiled at him. "Here for the weekly reports?" Lex looked up at him absently and shook his head. He put a book down on the table and smiled at his friend.  
  
"Actually, no," he admitted. "I came here for a cup of coffee actually," he said, pointing at his cup. "Just a nice cup of coffee and a good book, no other reason." He smiled ingeniously at him.  
  
"Right," Clark said slowly. "So what really chased you here?"  
  
"Oh God," Lex sighed, holding his head in his hands, his happy front collapsing, "guess."  
  
"Your dad?" It was no secret that Lex and his father had never gotten along well. Truth be told, they couldn't stand the sight of the other. And that had been before Lionel's injuries and blindness had literally forced him into Lex's care. Their relationship hadn't changed though, on the contrary it had gotten more strained than ever.  
  
"And your mother," he remarked.  
  
"My mom chased you out?" Clark asked, surprised. He knew that Lex had been against his father hiring Clark's mother as an assistant, but he didn't think it was this bad. "Why? What did she do?"  
  
"She's convinced my father to rearrange his old office and work out of that. It does keep the two of us from tripping over each other, so I'm all for it, but they're having a hard time deciding what should stay or go. He's been using it as trophy room ever since he moved to Metropolis and he's got a lot of sentimental ideas about some of the things in it."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"Well, let's see," Lex said, thinking back. "When I left, my father was making his last stand on keeping little Lexie Jr. in the office."  
  
"Lexie Jr.?" Clark stared at him. "What, you have a younger bother in there chained to the wall?"  
  
"No, but I wouldn't put it past my father," he remarked. "My father went on a safari to Africa a number of years ago. One day there he managed to shoot a young lion outside of camp. He said that it's red mane reminded him of me, pre-meteor shower of course, so he had it stuffed and mounted, for sentimental reasons you understand. He calls it Lexie Jr. and it's been in his office ever since."  
  
"Your father has a stuffed lion in his office." Clark repeated in disbelief.  
  
"That he named after his own son," Lex finished for him and sipped from his coffee. "Isn't that sweet of him? I have to wonder whether he thought of the name before or after he shot it."  
  
"Growing up in the Luthor household has its dangers, I guess," Clark commented.  
  
"You have no idea." Lex glanced at him oddly, putting his cup down. "If you're looking for Lana, she's not here today," he remarked.  
  
"Oh," Clark said, trying to sound casual about it.  
  
"Called in sick, I think," he answered. "I've been telling her she's been working herself too hard, what with balancing a business and school."  
  
"Maybe I'll go check up on her," Clark started to say, getting to his feet. Lex reached out and pulled him down firmly though.  
  
"I think the lady needs her rest," he laughed. "Sit, talk with me a bit. I've been too wrapped up with my father for a while, I need to talk to someone who won't dissect everything I say." Reluctantly, Clark sat back down and began to idly toy with a small menu.  
  
"So how are you and Lana doing?" Lex asked him. The menu slipped out from between Clark's fingers and tumbled to the floor. He quickly retrieved it and put it back in its holder.  
  
"Fine, we're fine," he said quickly. Lex nodded at him, obviously not believing a word of it.  
  
"And fine means that you two are barely talking these days, I suppose," he said. "What happened? I thought you two were doing great for a while."  
  
"Things got complicated," Clark said slowly, unsure of how to begin.  
  
"Not the way I heard it," Lex smiled at him. "Supposedly you walked right in here and kissed her, you can't get more direct than that."  
  
"I really wasn't myself then," he started to protest.  
  
"Then maybe you ought to not be yourself more often, seeing how Lana was quite taken with your evil twin."  
  
"Too bad he, I mean, I," he stumbled, "I was a jerk about it."  
  
"You're young," Lex said, "you took things too fast and got burned. She'll forgive you, don't worry. Just learn from it, both the bad and the good."  
  
"What was good about it?"  
  
"I can think of two things offhand. One," Lex said, holding up a finger, "you learned that she likes strong men. Be confident and decisive. Whitney might have been many things, but he was very decisive. He said what he meant and he went after what he wanted. Two," he said holding up another finger, "you at least had some fun with her. A little action to tell your friends about"  
  
"No! I didn't, I mean, not in that way or anything," Clark said quickly and Lex burst into laughter.  
  
"I know, I'm just kidding," he said. "You're too easy a mark not to hit. I just meant that sometimes you two carry on like it's the end of the world or something. You're both kids, relax and enjoy yourselves. The planets and stars may revolve around Lana Lang right now, but trust me; you'll discover other solar systems some day." He glanced down at his mug and then signaled one of the waitresses for a refill.  
  
"So, I was scanning the Torch the other day," he said, changing the subject, "and what did I come across but that Jim Harper paid your school a visit. The old Guardian himself. How'd you like him?"  
  
"It was great," Clark said eager to be talking about anything other than Lana. "He's such a fantastic guy, I mean, so funny and smart. He let us ask him anything."  
  
Lex laughed and held his cup out for the waitress. "I met him once at one of my father's 'charity' tax-write off's. I wasn't too impressed with him, but then again, I was still in my rebellious phase. I looked at him like he was just another cop and he took me as just another rich punk. We had a very interesting conversation," he remarked dryly.  
  
Clark smiled and then paused as he thought of something. He'd never get a better chance to bring it up, he decided. "Lex," he said slowly, trying to make the question sound as innocent as possible, "did you ever hear him talk about meta-humans?"  
  
Lex stared at him from over the rim of his cup and then put it down, frowning absently. "Meta-humans," he said slowly. "I don't think so, but I remember hearing the term before."  
  
"It means someone with different abilities than a normal person. Special powers, you know?" Lex frowned again and sat back, nodding.  
  
"Oh, right. I remember now," he said. He smirked then and shook his head. "There's a lot of crack-pot theories that have come across my desk about people with special powers, most of them from Dr. Hamilton before he died. Some people believe in them, some don't," he shrugged.  
  
"Harper believes in them," Clark said. "He told us that there was a new age coming, where meta-humans are going to be more and more common."  
  
"That's a little too religious sounding for me," Lex said. "'A New Age'. People start talking like that; they're usually a little disconnected from reality."  
  
"So you don't believe in them, meta-humans? Even after everything that happened last year?"  
  
"I didn't say that," Lex pointed out quickly. "I've read about a few of Harper's meta-human's over the years, mostly in such well respected papers as the Inquistor. I've even met a few. But I don't agree with Harper."  
  
"What do you mean? If you've met a few, how can you say that?" Clark asked him.  
  
"I don't agree with that 'New Age' idea of his," Lex said firmly. "It frightens me in more ways than you'd believe. The idea that normal people have to hand over our destinies to a bunch of freaks," he paused with a look of disgust. "It makes me wonder how much longer we'd have."  
  
"I don't think they'd have anything against us, Lex," Clark said quickly, trying to keep from sounding too nervous. "Why would they?"  
  
"Because we'd hate them," he replied. "We'd resent them every time we saw them do something we couldn't. Soaring so far above us while the rest of humanity had to toil in the mud," he muttered into his coffee. "We'd make them hate us. They'd have no choice." Clark was speechless.  
  
"You know the story of the Cro-Magnon man and the Neanderthal, right?" Lex asked him absently. "The Neanderthal lived for thousands of years all by himself, when all of a sudden, this new race, the Cro-Magnon popped up. Maybe they were the sons and daughters of the Neanderthal, born special just like your meta-humans. Maybe they drifted away from their less evolved parents to form their own tribe, smarter and more organized. Regardless, now you had these two groups of people in the world. They both hunted the same food, needed the same shelter, you can see how they would be a threat to the other. It was competition. Who knows if it was gradual, or just a war, but in any case, the Cro-Magnon won, and what do you think he did?"  
  
"Instead of simply letting the Neanderthal go to seek greener pastures, they butchered them to the last man, woman, and child. They eradicated a species, Clark. A species. Think about that and then ask yourself this: have we really come that far from those days? Are we any less savage? I'd like to think so, but I doubt it," he said sadly.  
  
"But what if it didn't have to be that way?" Clark asked him, desperately trying to bring him around. "It's not the dawn of time, we could talk things out. What if we could find a way to live together?"  
  
"It'd never happen," Lex smiled sardonically. "I wouldn't, couldn't feel safe knowing there were people like that walking around. I'd never be able to trust someone with that much power over me. Maybe living under my father has disillusioned me, but I have learned one thing about power from him. If you have it, you use it."  
  
"What would you do if you had those kinds of powers, Clark?" Lex suddenly asked him, smiling. Clark almost fell out of his seat in alarm. He laughed nervously for a moment, thinking quickly.  
  
"I don't know. I guess I'd try and help people," he said finally.  
  
"Of course you would," he said. "You're a good person. But even you'd have to admit that the temptation would be there; to use your powers for yourself, mm?" Clark shrugged worriedly. "How long could someone last?" Lex wondered out loud. "Bearing up under that? Holding back and never having a little fun with those powers? Not very long, I think."  
  
"Well, what if they did use their powers to help people, what then?" Clark asked him. "Could you accept them then?"  
  
"Accept them? Maybe, but I'd never trust them," he remarked. "When you start putting all your faith in some benevolent, super-person, then you're ignoring the fact that they're fallible. It's a fine thing to put all our problems in the hands of a perfect man, but what happens when the perfect man gets a bellyache?" he joked. "What happens if this protector wants to take a vacation, or a day off? Or if he makes a bad decision or a mistake and someone dies? Can you prosecute someone like that? Put them in jail? Or do we draw up another set of laws for meta-humans?"  
  
Clark hesitated, unsure of how, or even if he could answer. "So what happens then, Lex?" he asked finally. "If they are coming, what do we do with them? Accept them or what, hunt them down?"  
  
"I'm not suggesting some kind of 'final decision'," Lex remarked, shaking his head. "I don't know what's going to happen. If Harper's right, and there is a new age coming, well then, we'll have to find out together I suppose." He sat back in his chair and smiled at Clark.  
  
"A brave new world," he said, shaking his head ruefully. Then he lifted his mug and nodded to Clark. "To all of it, to meta-humans and poor shmucks like you and me. Assuming there's still a place for us," he added. All Clark could manage was a weak smile. 


	4. Epilogue

Guidance: Epilogue  
  
Clark lay on top of his bed, thinking to himself quietly. He tossed a football into the air idly, catching it lightly and then throwing it again. He stared at the ceiling without really seeing it, just letting his thoughts tumble over each other.  
  
"Hey, your mom's got dinner on," his father poked his head into Clark's room.  
  
"Yeah, coming," Clark said without moving. Jonathon glanced back and came back into his room.  
  
"Is there something bothering you?" he asked quietly.  
  
"No," he said. "Yes, maybe. I don't know."  
  
Jonathon raised his eyebrows and smiled at him. "Well that's an answer," he remarked. Then he sat down on the edge of Clark's bed. "Is there something you want to talk about?"  
  
Clark tossed the football up one last time and then caught it. "What am I supposed to do with myself, Dad?"  
  
"What do you mean?" he asked.  
  
"I mean, what am I supposed to do when I grow up?" he asked, sitting up. "Am I supposed to get a job like everyone else, or am I supposed to do something with my powers, what?"  
  
"Well, that's a difficult question," Jonathon said, flustered. "What do you want to do?"  
  
"I wish I knew," Clark said, laying back down. Jonathon patted him on the shoulder comfortingly.  
  
"You know what the problem is," Clark went on, "I can't really talk to anyone about it, expect for you guys or Pete. I mean, if someone wants to fly an airplane, they can go talk to a pilot or something, but what about me? Who can I go to?"  
  
"Why can't you go talk to someone?" his father asked him. Clark stared up at him.  
  
"Are you forgetting about the interstellar lawn-dart we've got in the shed?" he laughed bitterly.  
  
"I mean it," he replied. "Why can't you go talk to someone?" Clark could only look at him, confused.  
  
"Son, your life is your own," he started. "You can do what you want with it. If you want to reveal your powers someday, your mother and I won't stop you."  
  
"But you always say," Clark interrupted, but Jonathon kept going.  
  
"I know, I know. We're always telling you not to reveal yourself, right now at least. We want to protect you is all. We know it's hard, and maybe it's impossible to keep it hidden forever, but we promised ourselves we'd give you a normal childhood. Or as close to one as we could get," he shrugged wryly.  
  
"Clark, being a teenager's hard enough without factoring in your powers. A lot of things are confusing, you don't know where you want to go, what to think about yourself. You don't know who you are. Everyone goes through that, and it's tough," he said sympathetically. "But what makes it better sometimes is friends and family. We want you to be able to talk to people, not just us, if you need something. If you did reveal yourself now, you'd be growing up in a lab or something, completely isolated. But this way, you've got friends, people who care about you. You don't have to feel alone. Your mother and I won't be here forever, and we wanted to make sure that you know that."  
  
"Don't." Clark shook his head.  
  
Jonathon laughed and shook his head. "It's alright. Besides, who says you can't have a normal job someday? Hmm? We'll find you people to talk to. You want to act, we'll get you lessons. And if you want to fly, well I'm sure we could find you a pilot. How does that sound?"  
  
Clark laughed a little and tossed his football to the side of his bed. "Okay. But you know I hate heights." His father smiled and tousled his hair fondly, like he used to do when Clark was much younger.  
  
As they went downstairs for dinner, his father remarked, "And who knows? Someday, you might look back on these years and think they were the best of your life." 


End file.
